


Glory, Glory

by masonverger_rising



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Gunplay, M/M, Mindfuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 05:13:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11752770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masonverger_rising/pseuds/masonverger_rising
Summary: The confrontation in Hannibal's kitchen goes slightly differently.(Yakimono divergent)





	Glory, Glory

The black eye of the gun trained on Hannibal’s temple is unwavering. He can smell the oil used in maintaining the weapon, and the faint spice of the last time it was fired, but mostly he can smell Will, the murky heat of his sweat and the sickly aftershave he wears still, spitefully. There is a bloom of warmth in Hannibal’s belly, and he closes his eyes and turns his face aside, his tongue traces the familiar topography of his teeth and he can feel cool air gusting from the refrigerator’s open door, bathing his hand. 

Every sensation is crystalline, suspended in this moment of anticipation, waiting for the minute twitch of Will’s finger on the trigger.

A ragged indrawn breath and the scuff of Will’s shoes on the tiles, and Hannibal peeks from under his lashes, catches a glimpse of Will’s flushed cheeks, sweat sticking the curls to his forehead.

Hannibal’s tongue traces the sharp edges of his teeth and flicks against his lip, as though he’s tasting the air the way a snake does. “Why are you hesitating, Will?”

“I’m not  _hesitating_ , Doctor Lecter.” That gravelly tremble in his voice, uncertainty masked as anger.

“You were determined to take my life. What is stopping you now, Will?”

“I was going to walk away. I was going to leave.”

“You didn’t want my death on your conscience?” Hannibal’s lips draw back, baring his teeth in what could, loosely, be called a smile. “Or … you want my death on your hands. A gun is so impersonal, isn’t it? Feel it kick in your hands once, twice, and then nothing. No blood pouring up to the elbows, no hot struggle of flesh …”

“You wouldn’t struggle. You wouldn’t even try to stop me – what happened to  _life is precious_ , Doctor Lecter?” Will draws closer, the muzzle of the gun kisses against Hannibal’s cheek, cold and brutal.

“Life  _is_  precious, and death takes us all eventually.” The refrigerator hums, and he thinks of the flash of the gun, the pop that he wouldn’t hear and his blood spilling across the floor, he thinks of the food spoiling, his own flesh spoiling.

“Do you want me to kill you?”

Hannibal doesn’t answer. He feels the gun slip against his jaw, he hears the scrape of his five o’clock shadow against the metal rim as it traces down, presses against his teeth through his cheek, then it brushes the corner of his mouth, pushes hard enough to pucker his lips.

It would be so easy to take the gun. Both of them know that Hannibal could take it, duck out of the bullet’s path and snap Will’s wrist, they are too close for Will to keep his advantage, too close for any certainty in a fight. No police or FBI training instructor would approve of Will’s actions, but Hannibal approves.

Hannibal turns, opens his mouth, his lips part around the barrel of the gun, his teeth clink against the metal and he tastes it, tastes that gun oil and the powder residue and the potential of this thing to tear through him, to punch through the spinal column at the base of his skull, to reduce him to so much grey sludge and bone fragments and blood.

Will pushes the gun into his mouth, and Hannibal takes it, he gags when the hard metal touches the back of his throat, cold and unyielding, he gags and his eyes water and he watches Will through the welling tears and his wet lashes and sees him flushed and breathing hard and his face twisted with fear and lust, and Hannibal gags and chokes and holds back a smile.

Spittle spills down his chin, stains the expensive silk of his tie and the gun pushes inexorably against his tongue, against his lower teeth, he’s forced down by the jaw, forced onto his knees on the hard tiles as he gags and drools and looks up at Will, now haloed by the lights behind him, illuminated by this taste of control, of the power over life and death.

On his knees, Hannibal’s face is level with Will’s groin. He can smell the heat of his arousal and has time to wonder if Will has even noticed his own excitement before he watches Will’s free hand, trembling, flutter over the bulge in his trousers, catches the faint click in Will’s throat as he swallows and sucks in a deep breath.

A slap rings against Hannibal’s cheek and in a flash he’s pinned face-down on the tiles, Will’s knee planted between his shoulder blades. He feels the gun digging into his spine, and he feels Will leaning on him, reaching for something and then the purr of a blade through the seat of his trousers, a rougher slice as Will hacks, one-handed, through his underwear. Cold air brings a prickle of gooseflesh as the knife clatters to the floor and Will shifts his weight again, crushing Hannibal’s face against the tiles, grinding the bones in his shoulder.

The gun is just as cold and blunt pressing against his ass as it was plunging into his throat, and now it is barely damp with his own spit and is cold and it burns as the unforgiving metal is forced into his body. Now Hannibal makes a sound, an animal whine, and Will jams his knee down harder, drags the gun back and plunges it in again until his finger, resting on the trigger guard, is nestled against Hannibal’s perineum.

Hot liquid runs down Hannibal’s crease, he feels it dribble down his balls and he hears a drop, two drops tap onto the floor and for a second he thinks he must be bleeding badly, then Will shifts his weight and lifts himself from Hannibal’s back and he realises that it is saliva, that Will spat on him in lieu of reaching for even cooking oil. 

No mercy in this act that would stand in for murder, that may yet end in death.

Even without the knee between his shoulder blades, Hannibal stays where he was put, exposed, the gun withdraws and he winks open, and it’s almost worse to be empty. Not for long. The gun is replaced with flesh, Will scrambles for a grip on his belt and hauls him back onto his cock with a garbled cry.

Eyes closed to better listen to the sound of Will’s ragged breathing, and to the slap of flesh against flesh, better to feel the hot, dry slide of Will in him, splitting him open, grinding against the bundle of nerves inside him. Hannibal’s own erection hangs heavy between his thighs, throbbing and dripping and utterly ignored.

Will’s breath saws in time with his thrusts, his hand clenches Hannibal’s belt until it bites into his hips enough to bruise, and the intensity of it, being overcome, overpowered, as much as he allowed himself to be, as much as he still allows himself to be. 

It’s intoxicating, this intimacy, this exchange of control – to be at once subsumed to Will’s rage and desire, and the focus of his immense attention. 

There is a glory in this, in being open in this way, to give of his own body and to offer his insides, his everything to this man, to this angel of vengeance, of righteous fury.

As he approaches his climax, Will’s movements become jagged, each thrust a spark bursting behind Hannibal’s eyelids, a constellation carved into the night of his mind. At last, at last, Will stops, buried in Hannibal’s body. He draws in a deep, sobbing breath and he untangles his hand from Hannibal’s belt. Without that taking his weight, Hannibal’s knees slide on the tiles.

Will pulls out, leavers himself upright and staggers back. The gun clicks and Hannibal expects a bullet to slam into his back at any moment, he tastes the metallic tang of blood at the back of his mouth, he can smell it. He listens to the uneven pattern of Will’s retreating footsteps as he escapes the kitchen, as he runs from what he has done, from what he is, from what he is becoming.

Still lying on the kitchen floor, bloodied and bruised, in the cold waft of air from the still-open refrigerator, Hannibal bares his teeth in a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Also on tumblr as masonverger-rising


End file.
